


The Monumental Mason

by merihobu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 17:19:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4675007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merihobu/pseuds/merihobu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Penlod helped build his people dwellings, and three times he helped build them something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snowhouse

**Author's Note:**

> Quenya names are used in earlier chapters, and Sindarin names in later ones.

The giant slab of ice nudged against its brethren on the sea, oblivious to both the people it had buried and their newly bereaved kin. As the echoes of the thunderous crash died down and the murmur of shifting ice filled the silence, the bedraggled procession of Elves shuffled on, instinctively skirting the accident zone. For most of them, it was just another day.

For Pendetano and his mother, it was not.

Shocked into stillness, they stared blankly out at the empty white expanse, until a touch to their shoulders alerted them to the stream of fur-clad people trickling steadily onwards around them. Pendetano turned to see his father’s steward— _his, now_ , he thought with a jolt—standing there, a mixture of worry and sympathy on his face. Though poised to speak, he seemed at a loss for words.

Beside him, Pendetano’s mother sighed. “Don’t waste words on condolences, Oncolindo,” she said. “And yes, we’ll have to replenish the supplies that went down with him. I will speak to our lord’s daughter about adding an extra party to the next hunt—in the meantime, perhaps Ehtelion’s folk could spare us a bit more of that whale they trapped in the ice, if we help shoulder some of their burdens.” Her hand brushed her cheek as she made as if to adjust her hood, and she turned quickly away.

“Mother—”

“Onwards, Pendetano,” said Alastarmë briskly, grabbing his hand and pulling him along. “You too, Oncolindo. And _do_ watch out for signs of falling ice.”

 

* * *

 

When Alastarmë next spoke, they were already setting up camp for the night. “You stay here,” she told Pendetano, “and make sure no one makes a mess of things. I must be off, to ask the lady Irissë about the hunt, and to see if Laurefindil has a few minutes to spare.” With that, she turned and swiftly exited the tent. Pendetano remained at its entrance, staring unseeingly at the spot where she had last disappeared into the crowd.

He was still there when she returned, a sack in one hand and a scrap of paper clutched tightly to her chest. “Still standing there?” she asked, a hint of disapproval in her voice. It was only when she saw his face that her expression softened and she drew him in for a hug. Pendetano did not think he would ever get used to towering over her like that; it seemed only yesterday when he was looking up at his parents from around their knees.

“I know this has come as an awful shock,” Alastarmë began, “although I cannot say it was anything of a _surprise_ , given our track record so far. But…” she sighed and reached up to stroke his hair, making him feel like a child again. “That is how things work here: we must keep moving on, lest we too end up frozen in place.” Breaking away from the hug, she picked up the sack and held it out to him. “Now go and give a piece to each household, while I put this away…” Her fingers fumbled with the pouch she wore, and she cursed as the slip of paper escaped her grasp and fluttered to the ground.

It was a small scrap, torn from a book; the side facing up was covered with Laurefindil's sprawling, untidy script. Retrieving the paper and turning it over, Pendetano felt another strange jolt as his own face stared up at him. “Wait,” he said. “What about father?”

Alastarmë sighed again as she finally tugged the pouch open and plucked the portrait from his hand. “Already a lost cause. Fuel is getting scarce; Laurefindil only had one scrap to spare.”

 

* * *

 

Pendetano had just finished readying their baggage when he heard someone call his name. Looking up, he saw Alastarmë striding towards him, a look of determined purpose on her face. “Here, eat this.” She pressed a piece of jerky into his hands. “The scouts have returned—lots of hummocks to climb today. Do try to stay above ground, and in one piece—I did not take on these extra bundles to see that meat go to waste.” She waved away the half he offered her, but allowed him to wrest a bundle from her grasp.

They continued their trek in silence, up and down the great hills of broken ice. Piled up like that, the interlocking chunks made Pendetano think of the stone huts his grandparents had built, long before his birth, in the faraway land to which he and his mother currently sought to return. The spark of inspiration that had lain dormant in him for many months began to flicker, and the rusty gears of his mind creaked into action. If one substituted blocks of stone with ice…

“Mother?” His voice sounded irritatingly hesitant for the competent adult he was supposed to be. “I was just thinking—these blocks of ice—when frozen like that, is it just me, or do they somehow remind you of stone? Aside from the fact that they melt, of course, but—in these temperatures—do you think—if circumstances were different—do you think it would be possible to _build_  with them? Or with hardened snow?”

He knew he had piqued her interest when Alastarmë’s eyes regained some of their former liveliness. “Hmm. Now that you mention it…” Withdrawing her knife, she carved out a  chunk of hard-packed snow from the ground and surveyed it critically. “You know, you may be on to something here.” Slicing the chunk in half, she breathed on the pieces till their surfaces thawed slightly and pressed them together again. The freezing air did its work; after a while, the halves held fast. Alastarmë made a small sound of triumph. “Ice and snow as bricks, with the frozen moisture on their surfaces acting as mortar. Most ingenious!” She gave Pendetano the tiniest of smiles. “Why, were conditions more favourable, one could build a veritable palace out of this stuff. I could plan the building, and you could be in charge of the details. A few carvings on the walls, perhaps throw in a statue or two—”

A distant boom cut her off and made them turn around, just in time to see a great column of spray erupt a long way down the line. A massive crevasse appeared between the crumbling mountains of ice, and the dark sea rushed in to fill the gap. They could hear faint screams amidst the clashing. Beneath them, the ground shuddered, and after some time the spray subsided, the ice settled, and all was quiet again.

Alastarmë dropped the chunk of snow abruptly and turned back. Wrapping her cloak tightly around her, she motioned for Pendetano to follow, shrugging off the arm he tried to put around her. Pendetano suppressed a sigh and drew his own cloak about himself; he knew better than to say anything as he trudged after his mother, blinking furiously against the rising gale.

 

* * *

 

Pendetano turned over for what felt like the hundredth time in his lumpy bedroll, trying to ignore both the draft in the tent and the rattling of its walls in the unceasing wind. Beside him, Alastarmë shifted, propped herself up on an elbow, and looked down at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Can’t sleep?”

He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

“Me neither. You know, I’ve been thinking. About what you said the other day, about building with ice and snow instead of stone. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to make it work since then, and I have a few theories I’d like to test out. We’ll be stuck here for quite a while—what say you we experiment a little? It should take our minds off other things, at the very least.”

“What, now?"

“What better time? Everyone’s asleep or out hunting; there won’t be anyone to judge us, or laugh at our attempts. Not that anyone laughs much these days. But think: should we succeed, this could revolutionalise housing for us all!” Alastarmë waved her hand impatiently. “For one, this accursed stuff is all around us, unlike animal skins and the other fiddly bits required to pitch tents… and I know it sounds paradoxical, but knowing the Valar’s sense of humour, I have a hunch that snow and ice might actually be _more_ insulating when used correctly. They’re probably laying bets on when we’ll figure that out! If nothing else, I for one would be glad to be rid of this infernal rattling. It sounds like the utterly ineffective protests of a thousand embittered souls."

Pendetano snorted. “I was going to go with Salgant’s snoring. Anyway, I have a few ideas myself, mostly involving domes. Beehive shapes, to be specific. Shall we start with snow? I don’t feel up to cutting ice right now.”

“Beehive shapes? Going back to our ancestors’ roots, I see. That would indeed be interesting; I wonder if… no, no, enough theorising.” Alastarmë leapt up and pulled Pendetano to his feet. “Let’s go outside and put our training to good use. It would be nice for our house to contribute something more than the occasional underfed walrus, for once.”

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, the two of them stood silent, surveying the structure before them with a critical eye. At last, Alastarmë spoke.

“Hmm. Not bad, for our fifth try. I’d call it stable enough if you can stand on top without anything collapsing, don’t you think? I must say, your circular bricklaying method was quite a stroke of genius. And it's even warm inside! Who would’ve thought that of snow? Once again, the Valar do not disappoint… really, this little exercise has exceeded all my expectations.” She gave Pendetano a rare smile. “You know, your father would be so proud.”

Pendetano pretended not to notice his mother's overbright eyes, and instead focused on squinting heavily at the fog in the distance. He could make out several figures approaching, dragging behind them a large, lumpy form.

The nearest figure, which soon revealed itself to be Ehtelion, stopped short as it took in the unfamiliar dome-shape with the small hole in its side. He blinked. “What in the world is happening here? Why are you two up at this hour? Have you gone quite mad with grief? Can I help? And what is that… thing?”

At that, Alastarmë straightened up and rolled her eyes as she brushed snow off her coat. “My good Ehtelion, do you recognise advancements in nothing but harpoon technology? What does it look like to you? We are as fine as two bereaved people can be, thank you very much, and _that_ , my dear boy, is the first prototype of our future dwellings. Allow me to present… the snowhouse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- An avalanche of thanks to tehta for beta-ing this (like, almost a year ago)!
> 
> \- Thank you also to Calima for letting me use her Quenya translation of Penlod’s name as seen in her story [Anemoi](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2012610). In her words:
>
>> Penlodh is most likely related to the Sindarin words pend, meaning slope or declivity, and adlod, meaning sloping. Pendetano, the rough Quenya translation, means slope maker.
> 
>   
> \- Suggestions for a Quenya version of Salgant’s name are most welcome. The closest I have come is finding this bit in _The Lost Road and Other Writings_ :
>
>> talagant [> talagand] harper (*tyalangando), cf. Talagant [> Talagand] of Gondolin [TYAL].
> 
>   
> ..could that be it?
> 
> \- Gah, I hate hate hate coming up with names. Penlod’s mother’s name is formed from the words _alast-_ ‘marble’ and _tarma_ ‘pillar’ using this awesome Quenya name generator that tells me I have chosen wisely. Of course I shall believe it! (Sadly, the page refuses to load now so I am not sure if it still exists, otherwise I would totally add a link.) Hey, the House of the Pillar had to come from somewhere!
> 
> \- Similarly, the steward’s name was formed from the words _ondo_ ‘stone’ and _colindo_ ‘bearer’, with one syllable removed because “Ondocolindo” sounds even more ridiculous and “Ondolindo” sounds too much like “Ondolindë”, i.e. Gondolin’s Quenya name. Can you tell I have no idea what I’m doing? (Also: you are most welcome to suggest better alternatives.)
> 
> \- I have zero personal experience with igloos, architecture, and carving of any sort, and googling can only get me so far, so please correct me if you find mistakes or inconsistencies.
> 
> \- Feedback of any kind is very welcome, and thank you for reading!


	2. Cenotaph

“—and so I thought we could bevel the edges of each snowbrick, and increase the angle of their inward incline… Mother? Are you even listening?”

Alastarmë blinked and stared up at Pendetano as though she had just noticed his presence. “What? Yes, of course, dear."

“…you _never_ call me dear."

“Of course not,” said Alastarmë absently. “You were talking about… snow angels?"

Pendetano stared.

“I take that as a no. Mind that patch of ice.”

“I was talking about ideas for our future snowhouses. You remember that project, don’t you? I was saying we should issue an official warning about sleeping under uneven ceiling, and also—” he broke off at the distant look on Alastarmë’s face. “…but perhaps I should save that for another day.”

Alastarmë did not answer, but simply continued walking, her eyes fixed on the ground.

Pendetano sighed and made a mental note to issue the warning himself; he did not care for a repeat of Salgant’s theatrics on murderous stalactites. He tried to focus on the road ahead, and on stepping on the right bits of ice, but the mundane task failed to quell the stream of ideas flooding his mind.

One particular thought would not leave him alone, and he decided to try his luck with voicing it aloud. “Oh! And what about tunnels? To connect the snowhouses to each other? That way, people could easily reach each other, even during the fiercest storms! We could have little communities, instead of just families, and perhaps blizzards would be less lonely then…”

Finally, Alastarmë looked up at him. “Might make it harder to avoid certain people, though."

“Yes, but…” Encouraged by her attention, Pendetano pressed on. “Don’t you think the benefits outweigh the inconveniences? Father always said we draw much of our strength from those around us, and I imagine it would be especially true here.”

“Indeed,” sighed Alastarmë, “but strongest is the person who can stand alone.” Yet Pendetano knew he had convinced her when she continued, “So, how many houses do you propose we join?”

Pendetano felt a surge of triumph, combined with a joy that seemed rather at odds with the bleak landscape around them. “Well,” he said, “two or three would verge on unsociable, but any more than ten might be taking it too far…”

 

* * *

 

The light from the lamp flickered as Pendetano burrowed further into his furs. Their new shelter was blissfully silent, and the warmth under the covers was almost reminiscent of Tirion’s languid summer nights. He watched the condensation trickle down the walls of their snowhouse, and suppressed a silly urge to ask for a bedtime story.

Alastarmë lay with her back to him, seemingly exhausted by their earlier spate of building. The steady rise and fall of her shoulders spoke of well-deserved slumber, and the fact that her blankets had slipped off did not seem to bother her. Pendetano leaned over and gently drew them back over her sleeping frame.

At that, she stirred and turned around, half-opening one bleary eye. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth as her gaze fell on him, and her voice was full of affection when she murmured his name—or what she thought was his name.

Even in her half-asleep state, she must have noticed the sudden tension in the air. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she blinked in confusion before realisation dawned on her face. Pendetano felt his heart constrict at the flicker of—was it anguish? disappointment? guilt?—in her eyes as she stared at him for a moment before burying her face into her pillow and saying, her voice muffled, “Go to sleep, boy.”

He pulled the covers back over himself and stared up at the ceiling, trying very hard to ignore her deliberate, even breathing and the occasional sniffle she failed to suppress. At that moment, Pendetano felt terribly small: like an insignificant speck, helpless against the forces of nature at work in this pitiless, unforgiving land.

_If only I could make a mark on this place like it has on us,_ he thought, _no matter how fruitless or fleeting. I would turn these cliffs into palaces of ice and snow, as lofty and exquisite as those in Tirion, before they crumble into the sea. I would make things so beautiful, we would forget our troubles for a moment._

Their conversation from many days past floated back to his mind.  _A few carvings on the walls, perhaps throw in a statue or two…_

_A statue or two._

The sudden rush of inspiration made Pendetano’s heart beat frantically as he waited for his mother’s breathing to deepen, something that seemed to take an eternity. Finally, when the coast seemed clear, he slid out from under the covers and crept over to the pack containing their long-disused tools. Oncolindo’s gentle snoring drifted in from the adjacent snowhouse as Pendetano wrapped himself up warmly, collected his things, and stole out into the dark.

He did not have to go far before finding a suitable block of ice. Spreading his tools out beside him, he brushed snow off the surface and set about familiarising himself with its shape and feel. Soon, the vision of the Elven form trapped within began to crystallise in his mind, followed by the steps required to free it from its frozen grave. Picking up his hammer and point chisel, he readied them for the first blow.

It was time to see how the ice fared against them.

 

* * *

 

He was putting the finishing touches to his sculpture when footsteps sounded behind him.

“What in Arda are you _doing_ , boy? This is hardly the time and place for artistic ventures—”

Alastarmë stopped short at the sight of the agonisingly familiar face beaming at them from the ice. Pendetano watched his mother anxiously from the corner of his eye as she took in the broad chest, the eager expression, and the eyes that seemed to twinkle under the starlight. Her breath caught as she noticed the robin perched on the birdbath—his first present to her—that stood before him. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth.

Pendetano took a deep breath, counted to twelve, and forced himself to look his mother in the face.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said tentatively, “and so I began thinking… about ways to—to commemorate those who… no longer walk with us. In a concrete way, that is. The land took them, and so it should remember them, don’t you think? And yes, I know, ice crumbles and floes shift, and this is hardly permanent, but I seek only to make a dent… Of course, the details are a bit off, and the whole thing is ridiculously small, it hardly does Father justice…” he trailed off, feeling rather helpless.

Alastarmë did not say anything, but simply put her arms around her son. After a moment, he returned the gesture, and they stood there, staring at the sculpture, until the cold got the better of them.

 

* * *

 

“My lady? My lord?”

Oncolindo poked his head in from the tunnel. “There’s someone outside requesting Lord Pendetano’s audience. One of Ehtelion’s people, by the looks of it.”

Pendetano frowned. Who could possibly want him at this time of the day? Racking his brain for forgotten tasks, he pushed aside the door flap and straightened to find his visitor pacing back and forth outside the entrance, a small bundle clutched in his hands. The feeble starlight illuminated the man’s worn clothes, and he looked as though he had not slept for days. His head jerked up at Pendetano’s arrival, and he paused after the customary greetings, seeming to struggle for words.

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you,” he finally blurted out, twisting the strings of his bundle around his fingers. “Especially so late. It’s just that… I saw your sculpture earlier today, and couldn’t help wondering if you—if you took requests. Commissions. You see, my wife—” He shut his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath before reopening them. “I would be happy to compensate you, of course.” His hand shook a little as he held out the bundle. “If this does not suffice, I can go back for more—”

“No.” Pendetano swallowed. “I mean, no need for any compensation. I would be most… happy to fulfil your request. Do you have a picture?” The man nodded eagerly, his thin face lighting up for a moment. “Please, give me a moment to fetch my tools. And keep your food.”

“Oh, I can’t do that, my lord,” protested the man, hurrying after Pendetano and pressing the bundle into his hands. “You’ll need the extra fuel for your work. I should know; my wife carves... used to carve stone too. Please accept this as a token of my gratitude. And…” At his next words, his tone grew hesitant, almost shy. “Would you mind if I watched?”

Pendetano managed a faint smile. “Of course not.”

 

* * *

 

His next visitor was considerably more well-dressed, albeit with an equally careworn countenance. His daughter poked her head out from behind his coat, one hand tugging on a braid, and fixed Pendetano with a gaze that seemed rather at odds with her childish demeanour.

He had hardly recovered from the shock of a royal visit when she stepped forward carefully and looked up again at him. Her voice, though skeptical, held a tiny hint of hope. 

“Father says you can make Mother come back, if only for a short time.”

“Well…” Pendetano crouched down so they could speak at eye level. “I can create a decent… imitation of her from the ice. But I am afraid I cannot make her come alive the way you would like. I am sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, I know it won’t be the same,” the child assured him with unsettling equanimity. Ducking her head, she scuffed the toe of her shoe against the ground until a gentle nudge from her father prompted her to stop. “But I should like to see her again, anyway.” She looked up again, her eyes wide and imploring. “Could you carve her with her telescope, ready to tell us about the stars?”

Pendetano glanced up at her father, who gave him a tiny nod. “Most certainly, my princess.”

“That,” said little Itarillë thoughtfully, “will do for now, I suppose.” She gave him a small, hopeful smile. “Please, may we watch?”

“Of course! I will fetch my tools, and we can pick out a suitable block together. Perhaps you could tell me more about your mother along the way?”

…

The visitors kept coming, and when the time came to break camp, they left behind an aggregation of silent figures to keep watch over the landscape.

 

* * *

 

Pendetano lay under his covers, watching the shadows cast by the lamp with half-closed eyes. He was on the verge of nodding off when the door flap twitched open and Alastarmë crawled in.

“Pendetano?”

“Mmmph.”

“Are you eating enough?” She fixed him with her beady gaze.

Pendetano opened one bleary eye. “I s’pose so.”

“Hmm.” Alastarmë pursed her lips and began rifling through the pile of dried goods her son had amassed in payment so far. “You'll manage, then, if we give some of this away? I don’t like how… _wan_ some of the others are getting.”

Horrified into full consciousness, Pendetano sat up straight. “I did not think of that!” he exclaimed. “It’s been so busy lately, I… Yes, by all means, go ahead.” He buried his face in his hands and sighed. “How am I to fill Father’s shoes, if I cannot even keep track of our people’s welfare?”

There was a soft _thump_ as Alastarmë flopped down onto her bedroll. After a moment, she reached over and ruffled his hair. “I think you’re doing just fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Again, my beta-thanks to tehta, without whom this chapter would have been expotentially more cringeworthy.
> 
> \- “Strongest is the person who can stand alone” is heavily bastardised from Henrik Ibsen’s play An Enemy of the People, which I have never actually read. (Original quote: “You see, the point is that the strongest man in the world is he who stands most alone.” No idea about the context here.)
> 
> \- Elenwë and stars because… I think her name has something to do with stars? My imagination, it knows no bounds~
> 
> \- Feedback of any kind is welcome, and thanks for reading!


End file.
